Grave without Flowers
by Alysun
Summary: A grave is contemplated. Plot mine, rating G, disclaimers - everything belongs to JKR. Other than that... Review! :P


Grave Without Flowers  
  
The sun was shining, which I found singularly inappropriate in this desolate place. The warm sun beating down on my skin faded away into a rude mockery of the very thing I wished never to be laughed at again.  
  
There was nothing really to see. Just a tree and an endless expanse of emotionless green, green grass. The sky sparkled a clear, aquamarine blue and the sun in it's barley yellow failed to show the blood red that made the house colours complete in nature.  
  
There had been a lot of blood. Too much, in fact. It had been my first sign, first indication and the first thing that I saw when I walked into the room. I didn't think that they'd have done it there, done it then. And when I wonder why they did it, I can't help but remember your past, my friend. They never loved you, just as you never loved them.  
  
As I stare down at the sod of earth, the crumbled specks of black in the fluorescent grass that mark out the severe lines of the grave I stand before, I know that it was as much as my fault as it was everyone else's. Nobody cared for you and your company was repulsive, your manner vile and slimy and your face unpleasant. You did not make yourself an easy person to commune and work with, always the loner, always the one in the corner with a scowl.  
  
Are you alone enough here?  
  
I must admit to feeling sorrow at the reading of your Will. You were a spectacularly singular man in your own right and you knew that. And knew that no one else cared to register the fact that your skills greatly outstripped those of others. It wasn't courage you possessed, but unbreakable determination and some times that was all we needed. The audacity to go on against the inevitable. And of all the things you were, you were undoubtedly one of the rudest people I have ever met. Is it with affection that I think of you now? No, not affection. Tolerance and acceptance. Because you are impossible to like, you bastard, and there are more than a few people who live more easily now in your death. Nothing marks your grave but a few scattered crumbs of dirt, the grass already feasting on your breathless body. No cross, no gravestone, just an oak tree, as old as time. The broad branches over shadow your final resting place, your last home, saving you from the harsh punishment of the scorching sun. I feel the back of my neck burn as I stare down emptily at your unmarked graves and my eyes fill in angry tears.  
  
I hope you're feeling happy now.  
  
You never had the decency to before, even when everything was going better than could possibly be expected. You would never give a damned thought to the rest of us when you were snarling and cajouling us with cruel words we did not deserve. You were remorseless, I don't think you ever regretted a single thing you've done. You bastard. The number of times I've heard you say that nobody is innocent have left me with one last imprint of you disgust of life.  
  
And yet you still clung to it like a shipwrecked man would cling to driftwood as the high, grey stormy seas buffeted him, flinging him left, flinging him right before drowning him in salt, foul tasting water impregnated with the rank junk of the world. You were a bastard and I think you still are, wherever you are in heaven or hell, in whatever you believed in.  
  
Perhaps you simply ceased to exist when the last drop of blood left your body. Perhaps that was it.  
  
But I can't bring myself to believe that, it's too painful, too final to believe. So much bitterness and life cannot be erased with such ease. Such boundless knowledge and such clarity of mind cannot. cannot.  
  
A soft sigh on the air, a breeze so weak it doesn't even manage to ruffle the deep green leaves of the oak.  
  
I wonder how you remember me, if you remember me at all. I know how you couldn't bare me then, but maybe life seems more understandable now, now you're safely dead and not having to live with a dagger pulling close to your throat every second of the day and night. Maybe that will alleviate your intense anger and sourness.  
  
I hope you're feeling happy now.  
  
You never were whilst you lived, not latterly for many years. I don't think I've ever seen you smile without the tinge of malice marring your pale face. I've seen a smile on a thousand faces and I wonder what a smile would look like on yours. It's not surprising that all I can imagine is that hated, smug smirk that speaks all the words you point blank refused to say. When you spoke, it was stupidly cryptic to the point of being meaningless. You cloaked yourself in selfish silence, and here you are again, silent.  
  
Only it's permanent this time.  
  
You always did have bad timing. You would go and get killed on the graduation evening of The Boy Who Lived. Just as he was walking up for the award, they say. You didn't scream, or call for help. You struggled. There was a poisonous gas that filled the room when the Aurors arrived. Nearly killed a couple. Had to leave in your own twisted and sick style, didn't you? But you still failed to catch your killers, and for that I am sorry. If there's anything you deserve, its that you are to be avenged, just as you avenged any of those whom you considered to be important fallen. Always down to matter-of-fact businesslike order, no time for human emotions. Too cold.  
  
Cold as ice.  
  
That's how the doctor described your bloodied corpse when he came out of that room and I have to say I laughed. A bitter laughter, one so unlike what was expected of a man of my position. Cold as ice, in live and in death. Only your even more untouchable now.  
  
Malfoy attended your funeral, by the way. Thought you'd like to know. He was there, straight backed and unmoved as they lowered your coffin into the ground. He made no move through the whole proceedings, barely blinking as they covered you in dirt. I know you wanted to be cremated or, 'burned', as you insisted. Cremated was for the good, you said, and burning was for the likes of you.  
  
Well, Dumbledore but his foot down and had you put here instead.  
  
Not that many attended your funeral, just as we all knew they wouldn't. Malfoy, Dumbledore, myself, the girl from the Apocrathy, a few of the teaching staff. Potter wanted to come, but was advised him to stay away. It was a sombre affair, but one that lacked the overwhelming grief of most funerals. Somehow, I don't think you found it grief worthy anyway, your death. More of a relief, maybe. But I can hardly say that. Not like I really knew you anyway.  
  
There's no flowers on your grave.  
  
And that's all anyone needs to know about you. 


End file.
